Uday Chandra Beyond Subalternity: The Political Aesthetics and Ethics of Adivasi Resistance in Contemporary Jharkhand 1. Introduction Vignette 1: As I entered the museum at Ranchi’s Tribal Research Institute, the familiar dank environs of a sarkari building enveloped me. My eyes took time to adjust to the poorly-lit hall of exotica before me. Slowly, I walked past clay models of Asur, Munda, Oraon, Santal, Ho, and Kharia families with their distinctive dwellings, ornaments, hairdos, and implements, each of them looking defiantly at me through the glass that encased them. These “primitive tribes” that we find today, explained official notices below the glass cases, were vestiges of the earliest hominids that lived in India. They mattered, in other words, because they were simultaneously our respect-worthy ancestors as well as inchoate (or “backward”) versions of ourselves. The Chota Nagpur Tenancy (CNT) Act, an explanatory note stated, was their “Magna Charta,” a charter of rights to lands demarcated as “tribal.” It had, in other words, protected tribal land rights since 1908 despite its many loopholes and problems. Vignette 2: In July 2009, a gigantic map greeted me at the block office in Torpa, a bustling town 60 kilometers away from the state capital Ranchi. Almost half the block, including a section of the Karo river, were demarcated for some purpose. “What’s this about?” I asked the babu closest to me. “This is the land meant for Mittal. A big steel plant will come up here. The jungli nature of this place will change.” It took me a while to digest. Arcelor Mittal, one of the largest steel manufacturers in the world, was acquiring, with the connivance of the state government, hundreds of acres of land meant to be protected by the CNT Act. How could the state let this happen? And why? Activist Dayamani Barla eventually led a campaign against the proposed Mittal steel plant, but there remain over four hundred pending memorandums of understanding 1 Uday Chandra (MoUs), signed by the Jharkhand government with corporate stakeholders in mining, agro- forestry, retail and real estate. How do adivasi subjects respond to these two faces of the postcolonial state in India? Viewed as primitives trapped in modern state imaginaries, adivasis are typically treated by scholars, activists, and policymakers alike as victims in need of protection or as savages to be civilized through commercial and educational initiatives. Adivasi politics, therefore, gets interpreted vis-a-vis the dramaturgy of postcolonial tragedy or triumphalism. These contradictory images or tropes place the adivasis subject in a “double bind”1. On the one hand, playing victim connects one to a wider universe of sympathetic bureaucrats and activists who are ever eager to represent “tribal issues” in the mainstream media. On the other hand, fitting the “savage slot”2 offers the possibility of remaking local communities on one’s terms without falling prey to civilizing missions. In either case, the political aesthetics3 and ethics of one’s position actively seek to negotiate the terms of subjecthood in ways that are not easily captured by the notion of subalternity. Subalterns, as Ranajit Guha4 famously argued, are supposed to resist modern states on the basis of pre-existing social solidarities and an autonomous domain of consciousness. Critics of subaltern studies have argued, however, that subaltern protest movements are, in fact, deeply implicated in the symbols and discourses of domination rather than simply constituting an 1 Prathama Banerjee, “Culture/Politics: The Irresoluble Double-Bind of the Indian Adivasi,” Indian Historical Review 33 (1), pp. 99-126. 2 Michel Rolph-Trouillot, “Anthropology and the Savage Slot: The Poetics and Politics of Otherness,” in Global Transformations: Anthropology and the Modern World (New York, 2003), pp. 7-28. 3 By aesthetics, I do not refer to matters of beauty or pleasure, but to its original Greek sense of αἰσθητικός or αἰσθάνομαι, i.e., the sensory perceptions and judgments that undergird political action. Similarly, ethics here refers to the moral character of one’s political position. 4 Ranajit Guha, Elementary Aspects of Peasant Insurgency in Colonial India (New Delhi, 1983); cf. Ajay Skaria, Hybrid Histories: Forests, Frontiers and Wildness in Western India (New Delhi, 1999); Shail Mayaram, Against History, Against State: Counterperspectives from the Margins (New York, 2003). 2 Uday Chandra autonomous political domain5. Might it be possible to take this criticism of subalternity seriously and yet appreciate the complex ways in which adivasis subjects in contemporary India resist and negotiate their subjecthood? Can we, then, locate resistance in the process of negotiating states? This paper takes up this challenge by probing into the tropes and strategies by which the contradictory mechanisms and meanings of modern state power have been reworked and resisted in two apparently opposed moments of resistance: the "peaceful" Koel-Karo anti-dam movement of the 1980s and the ongoing "violent" Maoist movement. In doing so, I show how the aesthetics of resistance-as-negotiation are tied inextricably, albeit ironically, to the ethics of adivasi resistance, each acting and reacting upon the other to define the potentialities of and proscriptions on political expression in the margins of the postcolony. 2. Playing Victim: An Anti-Dam Movement in the Margins of Postcolonial India In 1955-56, the Bihar Government started surveying the villages on the banks of the Koel and Karo rivers. Soma Munda, then studying for his school-leaving examination, recalls a mix of amusement and puzzlement at the sarkari cars driving through dirt tracks to arrive at his village of Lohajimi. “We didn’t know why these upper-caste officials, who did not take food or water from us, had suddenly developed an interest in our area,” he says. Nothing much happened until 1976. This was the year Soma returned to Lohajimi after serving in wars in NEFA, Kashmir, and Bangladesh over a 21-year career as a mechanic in the Indian army. “In Kashmir, I remember an occasion where we needed to set up an army camp. So we simply kicked out the Dogra villagers from there and went about our business without any hassles.” This is, of course, exactly what the 5 See, for example, Rosalind O’Hanlon, “Recovering the Subject: Subaltern Studies and Histories of Resistance in Colonial South Asia,” Modern Asian Studies 22 (1), pp. 189-224; K. Sivaramakrishnan, “Situating the Subaltern: History and Anthropology in the Subaltern Studies Project,” Journal of Historical Sociology 8 (4), pp. 395-429; cf. Timothy Mitchell, “Everyday Metaphors of Power,” Theory and Society 19 (5), pp. 545-77; Lila Abu-Lughod, The romance of resistance: tracing transformations of power through Bedouin women,” American Ethnologist, 17 (1), pp. 41-55; Lisa Wedeen, Ambiguities of Domination: Politics, Rhetoric, and Symbols in Contemporary Syria (Chicago, 1999). 3 Uday Chandra Government of India did in 1958 when it set up Heavy Engineering Corporation (HEC) Limited in Dhurwa on the outskirts of Ranchi. “They did not care,” explains Roylen Gudiya, “that our sasandiris (burial stones) and sarnas (sacred groves) mean everything for us Mundas. They dispossessed the villagers, stomped all over their lands, and desecrated their ancestral faith.” Sacrificing one’s today for the nation’s brighter tomorrow: this was Nehru’s call to his fellow citizens in the first decade after independence. “No one protested, no one resisted” says Roylen, “they kept quiet because they did not know better." In the margins of the fledgling postcolony, Nehru’s message was merely the cloak that concealed a fresh round of primitive accumulation. Internal colonialism6, in short, became the currency of domination of the periphery by the centre. Soma Munda and his fellow villagers were determined not to repeat the mistakes of those who had been displaced by HEC. When in 1976, the Bihar Government sent in engineers and labourers to the banks of the Karo river, Soma used his traditional office as a village headman or munda to mobilize people in the “inherently consensual and democratic ways of tribal communities” to resist the proposed hydroelectric dam project in the area. A total of 256 villages in Simdega and Torpa blocks of Ranchi district were to be submerged according to the official plan. Initially, villagers began protesting the influx of casteist Biharis in their midst. They wanted the labor to be done by local workers who would behave decently and eat with them. When their demand went unmet, the newly-formed Karo Jan Sangathan declared a “jan curfew” (people’s curfew): no one would be allowed to enter or exit villages in the proposed dam area. Since the Biharis engineers and workers wouldn’t accept food or water from adivasis and dalits in Lohajimi, they were forced to ask for supplies from the block office in Torpa, over ten kilometers away. “They would bring water in tanks that would stop at the village boundary, from 6 Sachchidananda Sinha, The Internal Colony: A Study in Regional Exploitation (New Delhi, 1973); Victor Das, Jharkhand: Castle over the Graves (New Delhi, 1992); cf. Michael Hechter, Internal Colonialism: The Celtic Fringe in British National Development, 1536-1966 (London, 1975). 4 Uday Chandra where the junior officers had to carry it in containers into their camps. It was great fun watching them toil in the sun,” says Soma. “We were determined to resist and protest, but peacefully. No arms or violence. If we got violent, they’d brand us as extremists (ugravadi), kick us out in an instant, and lay claim to all our lands.” As dam-related work proceeded apace, new methods of resistance were called for. For starters, the Jan Sangathans on the Koel and Karo rivers were merged into a single force. Knowing that the state saw them as primitives who worshipped nature in the forests, the Koel- Karo Jan Sangathan decided to invoke adivasi custom and law to oppose the dam.